


Dakota North Drabbles

by CavannaRose



Series: Dakota North Investigations [2]
Category: Dakota North - Fandom, Daredevil (Comics), Inhumans (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Injury Recovery, Investigations, Mindless Fluff, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-02-12 04:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12951084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: Various jobs and moments in the lives of a detective in the Marvel universe.





	1. The Puppy

Dakota sat back with a satisfied sigh, closing the case file with a sense of accomplishment. Sure it wasn't as high profile as some she had worked on previously, but she was grateful to Jessica for passing it on. Work was work, and lately that was getting harder and harder to find for those that didn't share her old friend's...particular gifts.   
  


Standing she stretched, rolling the tension from the sore muscles before crossing the room to tuck it away in the old metal cabinet. Perhaps it was a little hipster of her to keep files the old fashioned way, but closing a window on the computer just didn't give the same sense of all's well.  
  


A few minutes later she had the lights turned out and was locking the door, taking a moment to run her fingers proudly across the logo emblazoned there. Dakota North Investigations. No matter how many times she saw it, it was hard to believe it was real. Years of work, but it was worth every moment.  
  


What she needed was some old-fashioned shopping therapy. Maybe a new pair of boots, or perhaps a warmer jacket, Hell's Kitchen was far from as warm as it's namesake. Chuckling to herself, she turned a corner, falling into a comfortable gait as she traversed the ever-more familiar streets.   
  


The sound of a car backfiring broke the silence, and without thinking Dakota had a gun in her hand, safety off and one in the chamber. After careful inspection of every shadow, she laughed, setting all back to rights and tucking her firearm back into it's holster, concealed at the small of her back.   
  


"Sometimes, you're way too paranoid, girl." Talking to yourself probably wasn't reassuring to the nervous-looking couple on the opposite sidewalk either, she mentally jibed. Waving, she tried not to cringe as the pair scurried off to the relative safety of the nearest shop. Face falling back into a pensive blank, she continued on to the nearest bus stop. It wasn't her nevermind what others chose to think of her.

 

~~*~~*~~*~~*

 

Dakota was finally relaxing, an over priced beverage that had the gall to call itself coffee in one hand, a bag from American Leather in the other as she rode the train back to Hell's Kitchen. It wasn't that she couldn't shop closer to home, but sometimes you just had to head up town, distance yourself from the pain and suffering home. There had to be more "heroes" per square inch than any other place on Earth, too bad that didn't make the people any safer. She lost a minute, thinking of the so-called Heroes of Hell's Kitchen. Mostly normal folk, who fate dealt a raw hand to. The fact that they still did their best... well, that was the real miracle wasn't it.

 

The speaker announced her stop, and, ever the opportunist, Dakota left a business card for her Agency on her seat before rising and exiting to the platform. Moving through the crowd was never easy, as commuters beelined for home. A few old friends paused to talk, frustratingly blocking most of the hall. The PI tried to summon that sense of goodwill from earlier, but she could only mentally echo the irritated hollering of a man in front of her, berating the trio to "Get the fuck outta the way."

 

As a tussle broke out, she stepped aside, passing by with a shake of her head. "Not my monkeys, not my circus." Dakota muttered under her breath. She wasn't a hero, and though her friend and peer Jones might occasionally stop to interfere in such situations, she wasn't risking it. She had no powers to back her up, and though she might be strong for her size, it was only a human strength, and utilizing her skills would only lead to injuries and lawsuits here. You just couldn't shoot the common citizen because they were rude, not yet anyway.

 

Up in the... relatively fresh air above Dakota took a moment to pause, watching the bustle of the darkening streets while she finished the milkshake with coffee essence. Tossing the cup in the nearest receptacle, she laughed. There was a good chance her sweet tooth was going to be the death of her someday, as it was she felt the beginnings of brain freeze creeping up like an unpleasant guest. Carefully she rubbed her tongue along the roof of her mouth, trying to warm the palate as she headed towards her small but comfortable flat. Unlike some PIs, she didn't work from home, too much risk for the mere mortal.

 

At her doorstep, a small voice interrupted her solitude. "Miss! Miss! Are you the dedective lady that lives upstairs?" Pausing to place a gentle smile on her face, she turned to greet the gap-toothed little person who had come bounding up.

 

"I am indeed, and who are you?"

 

"M'names Sammi, Momma and I live on the first floor, but I'm not apposed to tell people that. Miss, my puppy ran away, can you help me find him? I have a whole dollar from my allowance so's I can hire you!" The pudgy little hand offered her a crumpled bill, and for a moment she struggled with the urge to laugh. The child looked so earnest, how could anyone refuse?

 

"Well Sammi, I'll tell you what. Because I like dogs so much, I'm going to help you out for free just this once. Don't tell anyone though, it's a special discount just for neighbours with puppies." Eyes wide, Sammi nodded solemnly, stuffing the hard-earned allowance money back into a pocket.

 

"Thanks Miss!" Sammi reached out, gripping Dakota's hand with sticky little fingers. "This way! This is where I saw my puppy last! His name is Mr. Fluffington, but he isn't a very good dog and never comes when he's called. He's white with brown spots and his fur is super long..." The kid kept nattering on, dragging the PI towards the park at the end of the street. She tried her best to absorb the relevant facts, but damn if the little one didn't just keep talking and talking and talking.

 

At the park Sammi released her hand, and North did her best not to immediately wipe the sticky, sweaty residue off her pants. People never realized how observant children were, and she didn't want to hurt the wee one's feelings. Side by side they scoured the park for clues, all while her chubby new "employer" rattled on about Mr. Fluffington's qualities, or lack thereof. It took about half an hour of searching, but finally they located the small bundle of fur, curled up inside the play structure, fast asleep.

 

Lifting him down, Dakota placed the pup in his owner's arms. "Well there you go, Sammi. Case solved, and just in time for dinner. You make sure you keep hold of his leash this time, okay?" Nodding solemnly, the gregarious little one buried their face in the puppy's fur, before dashing off towards home, where a tired looking woman in a pantsuit was calling their name.

 

Not far behind, North headed up to her own apartment. What she needed now was to wash her hands and sleep for a day. Kids were exhausting.


	2. The Party

Music and laughter echoed from behind the heavy wooden doors. Beyond them was _the_ soirée of the year. Held my Stark Industries, it attracted the wealthiest and most beautiful people from all over the world, add in the temptation that maybe, just maybe, an Avenger might stop in for a visit, and very few could turn down the invitation.

Dakota had not been invited.

Of course, that wasn't the reason she was standing outside the door, unable to commit to going in or not. Perhaps she didn't travel within these circles anymore, not in her line of detective work, but they used to be second nature. Years of modelling had helped her develop that air of boredom that drew the flickering debutantes and their masculine counterparts like too much honey on too little bread.

Once more she gently patted at the elaborate coiffure she'd put together for the evening, her long, auburn waves wrapped into braids and teased into delicate curls that brushed her cheeks. Despite how long it had been since she'd last decked out like a female in the spotlight, she was pretty darn pleased with the results.

The dress was a classic, something she'd still hung onto from her glory years in front of the camera. Skin tight bodice in a dark emerald silk, with a slit so far up the thigh it would make a preacher blush. Better, it showed off the lace of her black garters. Taken all together with her six inch fuck-me heels, she had cleaned up better than expected. A little makeup and she barely looked like she'd shot past the 25-year-old expiry for the modern model.

She had spent years before she'd opened her detective agency circling the same social strata as Tony Stark, and it was, ostensibly, under that guise that she had appeared here tonight, despite the fact that she had never made his acquaintance face-to-face. Interestingly enough, even after they had both made the move from idol rich to those that actually helped others, they had continued to circle the same social sphere. Of course, as a billionaire playboy philanthropist he had done it with significantly more flash and dazzle than Dakota had. She had simply faded out of modelling, taking fewer and fewer jobs, investing the funds in what had become a well-respected private investigation company on a global scale. Few other PI's had the deep pockets she was able to provide due to years of clever investment.

"Miss...?" Of course, that was neither here nor there if she didn't pass through the doors before her. She had stood before King T'Challa of Wakanda, for fuck's sake. Why was this so hard? She gave the tuxedo'd doorman a sheepish grin.

"Sorry about that, just gathering my nerve to face the crowds. Better open up before I change my mind." Though his face showed consternation, the hired doorman pushed open the massive entrance, framing Dakota dramatically for a moment as she scanned the sea of faces. She wouldn't go straight for Stark, that was both unprofessional and suspicious, so she gave her best bored runway model look and stepped into the crush, greeting the odd former acquaintance with the little nothings of polite conversation.

It would be hard to remember she was here on a job, but she was a professional, damnit.

Dakota continued to make her way through the crowd until she finally spotted the notorious host of this particular shindig. Letting an inscrutable ghost of a smile cross her face, she recalculated her path to lead her past the man, but not directly to him. A womanizer of Stark's calibre needed to be lured in, they liked the hunt. No need for him to know just yet that he was the one being hunted. High heels clicking lightly along the floor, she tossed her hair just as she crossed his line of vision, letting the long locks and curls trail across her bare shoulders before she smiled at another guest, flirting up at him through lowered lashes before moving on towards the refreshment table.

There she paused, one foot tucked behind the ankle of the other, toe lightly resting against the tiles as she examined the offerings, not sparing even a glance for the glittering celebrities she had left in her wake. She reached out one perfectly manicured hand to pick up a flute of expensive champagne, bringing it to her lips but not taking a sip as she listened to see if her bait had taken.


	3. Aftermath

Dakota hung up the phone, staring at the handset as if it was going to spring up and bite her. She sighed, running a hand through her long red hair, wincing as the chipped edges of what used to be a nice manicure caught in the strands. With a sigh, she placed those tired, calloused hands on the desk in front of her. Once upon a time they had been soft and stylish, now they were covered in scars, twisted from being broken, and coloured by the faint stains left by gunpowder residue. How much had her life changed over the years?

Pulling her laptop forward she brought up the personnel files from the New York branch of her mobile office, carefully marking one as DECEASED. She hated this part of the job. The work they did was dangerous, sure, and they had signed up for it, but somehow every loss felt personal, like maybe if she had been the one there she could have somehow prevented it. She added a note on the file for accounting, indicating a bonus to the contract-bound payout for death on the job. He left behind a husband and the young son they had just adopted, the least she could do was see that they were cared for.

Closing the computer once more, she should work on the accounts but the call had kind of ruined the mood for her, she stood and stretched, doubling over as the ribs on her left side reminded her that they were STILL BROKEN. Her hand and foot had healed fairly well, but the damn ribs kept aching, refusing to fully recover. One hand bracing her side she crossed the office to the small kitchenette, ignoring the voice in her head that suggested they were still broken because she refused to keep them wrapped. It wasn't her fault, the bulk of bandages beneath the line of your clothing drew attention, and the last thing she needed was some jerk digging his fist into her already damaged side and crippling her in a fight.

In the kitchen she set the coffee maker brewing, picking up the file she'd left on the counter last night, flipping to the police reports from the day of her abduction.

Emilia, Esteban, and Victoria Rodriguez. The names were burned across her guilty conscience, casualties of a madman's masquerade. Then there was Thomas Abernathy - Tom. He'd been a piece of shit, but he hadn't deserved the end he'd gotten either. For the thousandth time Dakota went over the details of the Rodriguez case, trying to figure out where she had gone wrong. She'd followed the clues, same as every other case, focusing on recovery of the minor, just like she'd been taught.

No one could prepare you for that element a psychopath brought into the mix, though. She shuddered, still feeling the gentle touch of his hand on her face. That had been the worst part of the whole ordeal. Not the violence and torture, but the occasional tenderness he'd shown, as if they were intimate in some way. It had left her skin crawling, and set her wakening in a cold sweat, screaming. She could feel a familiar wave of panic and helplessness welling up inside her. Bracing one hand on the counter she focused on her breathing, on slowing it to a steady inhale-exhale until the crash of unchecked emotions ebbed. Damn that bastard, and damn her too.

The coffee maker chimed it's jaunty little tune, announcing to the near-empty room that it, at least, had done its job. Grabbing a mug she moved back to her desk, tossing the file beside her computer and dropping into her chair, brooding over her morning cup of java. She had to find this bastard and bring him to justice. She just wasn't quite sure how.


	4. Von Doom

Victor Von Doom was no longer a villain. Dakota had to remind herself of that several times as she stared at the ornately lettered missive in her hand. She far preferred working here, on the streets of Chicago with the normal folks, ones with relatively normal problems, but people like Doom had long memories. There were certain circles who knew what she had done for the Wakandan king, the discretion that she had earned his trust with. They also remember a time when she worked with New York's friendly neighbourhood webslinger, but those were even fewer and further between. It helped that she wasn't generally associated with "their" crowd either. The former model had no powers, just good, honest detective work and connections over a broad spectrum of society that opened all kinds of doors.

Fingering the edge of the heavy card stock, she made a snap decision. Curiosity would not let her turn down this kind of opportunity. Though she disliked taking high profile accounts, particularly after the fallout from the last one, part of her couldn't resist. She had been a model, and there was still part of her that was drawn to the more glamorous corners of the world. Sure the super-powered one wasn't the same as the social elite she had once danced with, but it wasn't that much different. There were the same volatile personalities and high stakes that she had cut her teeth on. People that lived apart from the rest were interesting, and she had all the curiosity of the proverbial cat.

Placing the missive down on her desk, she pulled open a drawer, rifling through it for some stationary and a pen that actually worked. It wouldn't be nearly as fancy as the one the former Latverian king had sent her, but the niceties had to be observed, even in the most minuscule ways. Finding some sheaves of unblemished paper with her logo at the top, Dakota jotted down a quick note accepting a preliminary meeting with the man at a place of his choosing. She couldn't very well expect someone like that to walk into her crummy little office, after all. After a fruitless search for a stamp and envelope, she sighed and stood, carefully folding her reply and sticking it in her jacket pocket, before putting up her "Back in 15 Minutes" sign and heading down to the post office.

The streets of the city were alive with people, and she couldn't help but greet them with a smile. Dakota was a people person, or at least she had been. It was what brought her to the private investigation business, that and a faint taint of altruism that was bound to get her into as many scrapes as it got her out of. Greeting the familiar faces of the old man at the newspaper stand and the young lady that ran the gourmet grilled cheese truck, she stepped into the nearest FedEx office to conduct her business.

That taken care of, she helped herself to one of those fantastic sandwiches and a fashion magazine and headed for the nearest park. What was the point in being the boss if she couldn't take a break now and then?


	5. Recovery

One day at a time. That was the line that all the therapy groups touted, wasn't it? Just take it one day at a time, and everything will get better. Cuts will heal. Bruises will fade. Broken bones will mend. One day at a time and that pesky trauma will just disappear forever. Bull shit. Bull-fucking-shit. One day at a time was for those willing to sit around and wait for the world to get better, but that wasn't Dakota's way. Never had been, never would be. One day at a time got your ass killed, or worse, got someone else killed. She couldn't let that happen. Not again.

Sitting in her office, the private investigator stared out the window, angrily squeezing the stupid little ball the "rehabilitation expert" had recommended for the damage to her shattered hand. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Apparently it would strengthen the connective tissue around the healing bones, mostly it just made her irritated. She didn't want to sit around working on the slow-as-molasses in January healing process. She wanted to be out there, on the streets. Chasing clues and tracking down the fucker who had left her so shattered. Plus there was the deal up at the New York office, someone had killed Charlie, and it was her job as his employer to track that person down and see that they received justice.

She clicked through the files on her computer with her good hand, looking at all the case alerts that had come through from the various other satellite offices that Dakota North Investigations ran. A kidnapping ring in Paris, but it looked like they were close to cracking that one. Good news, and no sign of powered individuals, just old-fashioned horrible humans. Rome was still struggling with the rogue magic-user, but she wasn't ready to tackle that quite yet, since she had her own individual of the enhanced variety to occupy her thoughts. Maybe she'd contract that one out to Jessica, if Jones was taking cases right now. It was hard to tell with that one, she was a good detective, but she was harder than Dakota. More fucked up to, for the most part. She flagged that case and left a note on the file for her operatives to maintain their distance. She wasn't getting anyone else killed.

Tokyo came through with the best news. They'd busted open the Opium smuggling ring, and Dakota smiled, sending an e-mail out to her accountant to release bonuses for the team. They'd worked that case for three years, alongside the Japanese authorities. Turned out the base of operations had been out of New Zealand, of all places, but that was one less warren for scum to come scuttling out of. She shot off a congratulatory e-mail, approved some vacation time, and a transfer for one of the New York operatives to Chicago. She could use another body around here, she was starting to talk to herself.

Paperwork taken care of, she moved back to the Rodriguez file, sitting on her desk like a glaring accusation, next to an ornately addressed envelope she hadn't bothered to look at yet. Briefly she thought of letting the case go, the family was dead, and she hadn't won the first round with the psychopath, but she just... couldn't. Reassuring herself that the fancy correspondence wasn't related to the creep from the Rodriguez case, she filed it away under "deal with this later" and turned her attention to the crime scene photos from Emilia's apparent suicide, scrutinizing them for details the police may have missed.

They hadn't taken her seriously, when she assured them that the woman's case was a murder. Sure they had heard about mind control, but proving it was nearly impossible. A suicide was simple, and with her daughter kidnapped and murdered by her husband, they felt there was good reason. Dakota's good hand flew across the keyboard of her computer as she took notes. What the woman was wearing, the position of the chair, the rope used. Details about the room followed, dimensions, furnishings... all the little parts that made up the big picture. She had missed something, and she was sure the clue would be there somewhere, if she just looked closely enough.

An hour later and she still hadn't found the missing clue, still didn't know where she had gone wrong. With a growl of frustration, the detective picked up the little therapy ball off her desk and threw it at the wall with all her strength, but, since she wasn't quite paying attention, the damn thing sailed out the window in a graceful arc, plummeting out of sight. Well fuck. A sound of startled outrage echoed up from the street below, and with a sigh, Dakota stood to cross to the window, leaning out to shout down her apologies to whomever she had just viciously attacked with compressed foam.


	6. Chapter 6

Some nights were better than others. Tonight... well tonight wasn't one of them. Dakota went through her evening routine, but there was a tremor in her still-healing hand that belied the kind of evening she was about to have. Breathing slowly she checked the lock on the door, the windows. She set up the alarm and moved to the kitchen. For a long moment her eyes lingered on a half empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the counter, but she had no desire to become like her friend and fellow detective. Not yet.

She bypassed the bottle, heading instead to the fridge. For a long moment she stood in the pale rectangle of light, before grabbing a small brown bottle. Pouring the dosage of the thin red syrup, she shot it back like she could have done with the whiskey. She had a prescription for the codeine, at least, and it would help settle her tremors more than the alcohol ever would. She knew it wouldn't take long for the medication to take effect, so she hurried through the rest of her routine, cleaning up, changing into pajamas, and crawling under the sheets. Maybe tonight she could just sleep.

Hours later she lay twisted in the sheets, perspiration dripping down her brow in the quiet heat of the night, the top of her pajamas fling open as she subconsciously sought relief from the oppressive temperature. Small, frightened murmurs, not quite words, escaped her lips as flailed her limbs out in a defensive fashion. Moments later she was fighting her way out of the sheets, a scream on her lips as she fell out of bed, one hand clutching her exposed chest as her eyes frantically scanned the room for that mocking smile.

Hands shaking, she put down the gun she didn't even remember picking up from her bedside table. Fighting against the betraying tremble, she slowly re-buttoned her top and eased her legs from the tangle of blankets, leaving them abandoned on the floor as she all but fled the bedroom. Tonight the nightmares won, and she would find no more solace upon her pillow. Instead she moved through the sparcely furnished apartment to the front room where she kept her home office. On it she had a board with all the clues from the Rodriguez case mapped out.

Flicking on the computer she settled into her chair, with only the fluorescent glow of the screen to illuminate the room. She plugged in a few passwords and dove into one of the darker corners of the internet, tracking down tales of this Maximus Boltagon and his exploits. Her brain was too tired to go over case details again, so instead she punished herself with details about the man she couldn't beat. About how helpless she was in the face of his powers. The only way she was here, alive, was because he willed it. That's why she couldn't get him out of her head.

Why did he let her go?

He liked to play with his victims. A sadistic cat with a mouse in its paws. Over and over again that came up as a trend in the stories of the ... what did that blog post call him? Inhuman? He certainly was an inhuman monster as far as she was concerned. The title suited him. Of course, his royalty was real too, and that could pose all kinds of problems as she built her case against him. He was known to be mad, but still allowed to wander. Did he have diplomatic immunity? Dakota jotted a note down on the pad of paper beside her computer.

Story after story passed across the screen; some violent and sadistic, some just plain strange. She consumed them like a starving man in a Waffle House. Horror after horror, printing out the accompanying photos and occasionally crossing the room to pin notes and images to her board.

Maybe she was the crazy person, after all.

Eventually exhaustion caught up with her, and she slumped across the desk, head resting in her arms as she fell into oblivion, an image of the smiling villain at the top of her screen.


End file.
